computer discs. He had a couple of racks of music CDs, too,

much of it Thai pop, a bit of Schubert lieder, some American

C&W — Roy Orbison, Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline. He said,

“We have to explore every avenue open to us, Mr. Don. Do we

not? We’re covering the Internet café that Griswold uses. And

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 117

tomorrow we can cover Kawee’s apartment and the whiskey

seller where Griswold’s cash delivery moto-man makes his

normal early-in-the-week drop-off for Kawee. Griswold’s

desktop may also yield up some answers, and we should hear

from Khun Thunska, my computer guy, soon after sunrise on

that particular front. There is also this to consider: the

kidnappers will undoubtedly contact you again to arrange for

the swap of Griswold for Timothy and Kawee. At that point,

you might be able to convince them that we have been unable

to locate Griswold but that we are busting our asses to do so,

and can we have a little more time? So while uncertainty

remains a constant, we know what we know. I do, of course,

understand why you are fearful, but I want to tell you, Mr. Don, that hope springs eternal in this particular human breast, and we are a long way from being totally fucked.”

At one a.m., we sent out for more curry. The restaurants

were closed by now, but a street stall over on Silom, under the

SkyTrain station, had some deep-fried water buffalo gums in a

hot sauce that one of Pugh’s crew thought we would enjoy.

While I ate, I tried Ellen Griswold again. She did not answer

her phone, but this time I left a message. I said, “I received your e-mail firing me. Thanks for giving me some leeway in my

return-to-Albany plans. That’s nice, because we haven’t seen the Emerald Buddha yet. Meanwhile, get this, Ellen: Timmy has

been kidnapped by some very bad people who are after your ex-

husband, and I need to talk with him immediately. Do you

understand what I am saying, Ellen? Please explain this to Gary

and tell him here’s how he can reach me. You got Timmy and

me into this, and now I am counting on you to help get us out

of it. Please call me right away and tell me what you are going to do to help.” I gave her my Thai mobile phone number.

I told Pugh what Bob Chicarelli had told me about the

Albany Griswolds’ sudden financial crisis.

“Interesting,” he said.

“It is.”

118 Richard Stevenson

“The Griswolds may have seen this coming and were afraid

Mr. Gary was going to lose his family boodle at the exact same

moment theirs was in jeopardy.”

“This occurred to me. Except, if that’s true, then why have

they called me off? They would want more than ever for Gary

and his thirty-eight mil to remain intact and possibly available to save the family name and fortune. Not that Gary would

necessarily be eager to be helpful. He and his brother were not

close at all, and there was some actual bad blood, according to

Gary’s Key West friends.”

“Griswold family ill will, or even strife, is yet another

element that perhaps we should pay some attention to,” Pugh

said.

I agreed that we should just as Pugh’s cell phone rang. He

listened and said a few things in Thai. Holding the phone

against his chest, Pugh said to me, “This is Captain Pirom,

representing General Yodying. Regrettably, the police have had

no success in ferreting out the captives. The search was not,

however, as thorough as the general would have preferred. He

is willing to do a second sweep in the morning of all the

fourteenth floors in Bangkok. But this will tie up many

resources, the captain says, so a second payment is being

requested. They want twenty-five thousand baht. I am meant to

tell you that because you are a repeat customer, that’s a fifty

percent discount.” Pugh looked forlorn. “What should I tell the

captain?” he said.

I leaned forward and peered into my fried water buffalo

gums. I heard a voice in my head saying, “Now do you believe me?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I woke up in need of a toothbrush, but it looked like a swig

of hot sauce was going to have to do. I had slept for four hours next to Pugh on the straw mat on his office floor. I had dreams

of falling, and I didn’t think the dreams were symbolic.

Two of Pugh’s staff — a muscular, elaborately tattooed

young man named Ek and a middle-aged woman named Aroon

who carried a bronze figurine of King Chulalongkorn in her

shoulder holster — had slept on the floor in an outer office,

and I greeted them as I went out to use the bathroom. Being

Thai, they smiled. The tiny lavatory had a toilet, a washbowl,

and a miniature shower in it. I tossed my sweaty clothes out the door and used all three appliances. I also borrowed somebody’s

toothbrush and honey-flavored Colgate, which wasn’t all that

bad.

Pugh had sent someone over to Starbucks on Silom for

coffee for all of us, and while Ek and Aroon took turns using

the shower, Pugh checked in with his surveillance teams. They

said there had been no sign of Griswold. A call to the cops

produced nothing new either. Pugh showered while I examined

the shrine in the corner of his office — gold leaf had been

freshly applied to the Buddha figure on the platform — and

watched the Monday morning traffic build up down below on

Surawong. Pugh came back looking neat and fresh, as if just

back from a month in the Swiss Alps. I had never seen a Thai

looking dirty or rumpled. The entire population of sixty million always appeared freshly ironed, and they were peculiarly

odorless despite the heat. The Thais had a lot of water and they used it.

After Pugh hung up with the police, I said, “You know,

maybe the kidnappers were smart enough to suspect we might

have every fourteenth floor in Bangkok searched, so they’re

holding Timmy and Kawee on the thirteenth floor somewhere.

If so, this is all a waste of time and our only hope is to find

120 Richard Stevenson

Griswold and make the trade. Or at least find him and find out

who these people are that he’s gotten so pissed off, and then go after them as fast as we can.”

“There are no thirteenth floors in Bangkok,” Pugh said.

“All right, then, fifteenth. At least they didn’t say ninth floor.

I suppose all tall buildings in Thailand have no thirteenth floors and instead have five ninth floors, increasing the amount of

good luck available to the population.”

Pugh laughed. “Mr. Don, you seem bemused by our being a

superstitious people.”

“I guess I am. But nothing more than bemused. It’s not

condescension, I don’t think.”

“I’d say it is exactly that, but never mind. As I recall,

buildings in New York City don’t have thirteenth floors either.”

“I am bemused by that also.”

“And additionally, I suppose, by knocking on wood and

avoiding black cats and keeping one’s fingers crossed and not

stepping on a crack so as to avoid breaking one’s dear mother’s

back.”

“All hokum. Tell me, Rufus. What happens to all those

thirteenth floors that are left out of the tall buildings in

Bangkok? Are the construction materials divided up among the

government building inspectors for resale and monthly

bonuses?”

He laughed. “No, we ship all the unlucky thirteenth floors to

our impoverished neighbors the Cambodians. This might help

explain their unfortunate history.”

“Another flaw in this whole operation,” I said, “is the